


Midnight

by leatherandlightning (floatawaysomedays)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Bonding, angel dynamics, cinderella au of sorts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-16 11:36:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1346014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floatawaysomedays/pseuds/leatherandlightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I have to go."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“It’s almost midnight.”

 

Dean is only half listening. Can’t quite make himself tear his eyes away from Castiel, can’t stop looking at the man that seemingly appeared out of nowhere. All sky blue eyes and easy smiles, wondering where he could find the Prince.

 

Dean had laughed for a solid minute and clapped the strange visitor on the shoulder before he realized that Castiel wasn’t joking. Was, in fact, twisting his invitation to death in his gloved hands.

 

 

Remembering the manners his mother had tried to hammer home since childhood, he’d bowed, and introduced himself properly as the Prince. Offered his arm, with a wink, and asked Castiel to dance.

 

Dean quickly found that Castiel’s laugh - warm, and sunny, like the first day of spring after a hard winter-  was contagious.

 

The waltz led them to the garden. Castiel’s hand tucked in the crook of Dean’s elbow as he pointed out the many flowers in Mary’s garden. The garden path led them to the balcony overlooking the city lights. And so maybe it is midnight, but Dean wouldn’t know. He hasn’t looked at the clock since the ball started, hours ago, and he isn’t worried about checking the time now. Has fallen out of the habit since he was injured and pulled from the front-lines, and that was months ago.

 

He’s more worried about finding the perfect moment to kiss Castiel. More worried about what it might mean, for both of them.

 

“Yeah,”

 

If Dean were to lean just a little to his left, if Castiel turned his head just so..

 

The huge clock in the center of the city starts to chime, and Castiel suddenly jerks backwards, eyes too bright and too wide. It’s so obvious, in that fraction of a second, Dean wonders how he could have missed it.

 

He’s become complacent.

 

“I have to go.”

 

He starts to rise, but Dean catches his wrist. The clock chimes again. He isn’t going to lose him now. Not after everything.

 

“No, wait. Don’t go.” Castiel tries to move away, but Dean’s grip is like iron. “Listen, I know what you are. It’s okay.”

 

Castiel goes still. “If you truly know what I am, then you must know that staying any longer would be suicide.”

 

“Only if somebody sees you. There are some advantages to being Prince. I can guarantee you complete privacy until tomorrow. Cas, please.”

 

Castiel is clearly torn, but he’s running out of time. “You don’t really know.”

 

Dean cradles Castiel’s hand in both of his own. “I was out in the thick of the war. I know enough. I know that your hands are covered in the softest leather because it’s tradition. I know that when the clock strikes midnight, your wings will manifest against your will. Your true-form will reveal itself.

 

I know that you are an angel in enemy territory, Castiel, and I don’t give a damn. Don’t go back. Stay with me. Just one night.”

 

“I’m sorry.” Castiel shakes his head and backs up one step, then two. “I can’t.”

 

The clock starts it’s final chime, and before Dean can reach out again, huge, midnight black wings burst into existence as Castiel disappears with a snap and a rush of air.

Dean is left with a single black feather. He tucks it into his jacket before going to his rooms. 

He spreads out the maps, and considers them until the sun peaks over the horizon.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean doesn't know where to start looking. Not at first.

Dean doesn't know where to start looking. Not at first.

Most angels live deep in the forests. In the outlying lands. Most angels are harmless. Peaceful.

Except for the ones that aren't.

Soldiers following orders. Factions trying to encroach on land that isn't theirs, trying to burn villages to the ground. Burn humanity off the map entirely.

Castiel didn't strike Dean as that kind of angel, but Dean's been wrong before.

Dean sighs at the open maps, and gently covers his eyes with his hand. Wonders just what the hell he thinks he's doing.

Even if he finds Cas, even if he somehow manages to not start another war in the process, Castiel isn't going to come back with Dean. He's obviously not interested. He managed to get an invitation - maybe to spy on castle security, maybe to plant something, who knows - and he left.

Dean shouldn’t bother.

He turns away from the table, and starts to shed his heavy dress jacket. Four brass buttons later, and he’s draping it over the chair and rolling his shoulders. Ceremonial dress really isn’t Dean’s thing. He’d much prefer to suffer through formal dinners and dancing in a crisp, lightweight suit.

And maybe a pair of shoes that didn’t pinch so much.

He’s leaning down to untie them, when it catches his attention again.

There’s a magic about them, or so he’s been told. Sam has half a dozen spells that call for angel feathers given willingly. Important spells. Healing spells.

Thing is, they don’t really have access to an angel that’s, well, willing.

Dean might have healed quicker if they had. Might have healed completely.

He’s not sure this feather counts, and there’s no way to tell. Safer not to use it at all and destroy it rather than watch it blow up in their faces. Magic is tricky, and even their highest ranking magicians don’t have a clue how to use angel feathers.

Dean picks it up and leans back onto his bed. Holds it up to the early morning light streaming through the window. Funny, how much salvation is held in one, fragile feather.

Funny, how his eyes have stopped burning.

In the light, it almost looks more blue than black. Dean turns it back and forth, frowning slightly. His index finger comes away smudged after he smooths the trailing vane. The path his finger made reveals a deep, brilliant blue, and the more Dean rubs at the feather, the brighter it shines. It’s remade, and it’s gorgeous.

His hands are covered in the dense black dust by the time he’s done, and it takes Dean less than a minute to connect the dots.

Ashes. Castiel’s feather was covered in dust and smoke and ashes.

Dean changes quickly, and tucks the feather back into his fresh shirt. It’s warm where it rests against his skin. Warm and alive.

There’s only one hideaway, close to the border, that went up in flames. A place untouched by the war until just recently. And it wasn’t humans, or magicians, or monsters. No, this safe haven was set aflame by other, warring angels. Angels that resented the ones living in peace. He remembers the reports. The soldiers made an example out of the peaceful encampment that dared to trade with the human village nearby. Dean’s leading guard had called the woods ‘eerie’, and refused to take his men past their borders and risk their own lives for an angel feud. They’ve lost so many already, Dean didn’t really blame him at the time but now.

Now, he wonders.

  
Dean knows where Castiel is. And it’s not far.  
  


It's not far at all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel should have known he wouldn’t be able to slip into the grove unnoticed.

“What have you _done_.”

Castiel should have known he wouldn’t be able to slip into the grove unnoticed. Not with Rachel standing guard.

“Nothing, I-”

“You went to see him, didn’t you? After she told you it was forbidden.” Rachel reads his features and his silence and shakes her head. “Do you even care about your own people?”

Castiel grips what’s left of the invitation in his hand, and pushes past her without answering. He doesn’t know how to explain.

He doesn’t want to.

“You could have been killed!”

Castiel longs to take flight as fast and as far as he can, but his wings would tear the thick material Anna managed to weave on short notice and he won’t risk her temper after what he’s done. It would be foolish considering Anna will be the only one to take his side against Sariel, if it comes to a vote.

“But I wasn’t.” He mutters over his shoulder. “The only threat to my safety right now is _banishment_ because _you_ can’t keep your voice down.”

Rachel huffs. “I suppose I'm wasting my breath. If you didn’t listen to her, you certainly won’t listen to me.”

“They’re not all bad.”

Rachel turns her back to him, hand tight around her sword. “I’ll start building your pyre tomorrow. Since you’re hellbent on killing yourself.”

He doesn’t bother to answer. His squabble with Rachel stretches far beyond one night of pretending to be something he isn’t.

Castiel brushes past the weak magical camouflage protecting their grove of trees and pauses to listen. The birds are singing in the hush and the fog of early morning, but otherwise the grove is silent. Most of the sept doesn’t wake until late afternoon. If he’s careful and cautious, Castiel should be able to return the clothes and make it appear as if he never left last night. If he relieves Rachel early, he might even convince her to hold her tongue.

“Up.”

Castiel's mouth twitches, slightly.

“Muriel, you are perfectly capable of walking on your own now.”

His littlest sister blinks at him, raises her arms, and calmly whispers, “Up, Cas.”

“I’m spoiling you, you know.” Castiel hefts her onto his hip, and her downy wings flutter with pleasure. At just barely two, she’s too young to conceal them properly, and too young to worry about the inherent danger of her feathers. He adjusts the crown of cornflowers in her tangle of blonde curls and touches one finger to her nose. “No one else carries you anymore.”

Muriel yawns at him and curls her fingers close to the collar of his dress shirt. 

Castiel settles her back into the low-lying hammock next to Eae and pulls the blankets over her legs and under her wings. Before leaving, he waves at her, once.

Muriel smiles. Waves back.

Anna’s shelter isn’t far, and Castiel changes quickly. He tries not to dwell on the tear in his sleeve Anna patched while he was gone or Dean’s cologne lingering on his jacket. He hides it all under the workbench and slips away to his own hammock. He’s exhausted, but he doesn’t sleep.

He listens to the birds sing and he thinks about oceans he won’t swim and mountains he won’t climb.

 **  
**And princes he won’t see again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You kept this. You cleaned it, and then you came back to me.” Castiel flicks his eyes to the feather, and then back to Dean. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

Dean knows he’s in trouble when he feels cool metal against his neck.

Big trouble.

He holds his hands up, palms flat and empty, and stretches his arms up slowly, slowly, slowly. He’s not reaching for his sword and he’s not calling for help and he’s not fighting. He knows he’s well out of his own territory - he crossed into the forest over an hour ago, and he’s been moving quickly - and he’s fair game.

Dean just hopes he’s fallen into the right enemy hands.

The guard is sure-footed, and she doesn’t make a sound as she moves around to stand facing Dean, her blade still pressed against his neck. Her hair is pulled back and threaded through with small flowers and her clothes are a plain, sand color.

And she’s staring at Dean’s shirt as if she can see through it, as if she knows what he carries. The corners of her mouth turn downwards unhappily, and her forehead scrunches up before she seems to come to a decision.

“Why are you here.”

“I’m looking for an angel.”

His answer doesn’t pacify her. If anything, it makes the fire in her eyes burn brighter. “I asked you,” The blade presses in and draws blood. Dean tries not to flinch, tries not to move in a way that would encourage the blade to dig deeper. “ _why_.”

“Rachel!” Castiel steps into the clearing, and Dean’s breath catches in his chest. He’s carrying a blade similar to the one pressed against Dean’s neck. Dark suit traded for a loose fitting shirt and soft breeches. Dean hasn’t been this relieved to see someone since he served. “Leave him.”

The woman Castiel calls Rachel doesn’t drop her blade, but she does turn a fraction. “You are biased in this matter, Castiel.”

“Dean,” Cas says, ignoring Rachel completely. “Why are you here?”

He’s not going to mince words, or pretend he’s here for something he isn’t. There are rumors that angels can tell when you’re lying, and Dean won’t chance it. Won’t make this into something it’s not. “I want your help.”

Cas tilts his slightly head to the left. “My help? Or our help?”

“Both. Either.”

“What kind of help?”

“You..” Dean thought it was obvious, thought the entire country knew. It’s a shock, to have to explain it. He swallows and his fingers twitch, an aborted motion towards the feather. “You can heal, right?”

Both angels continue to stare at him without saying a word. Dean belatedly realizes that they’re waiting for him to get to the point.

“Can I?” He gestures with one hand and Castiel nods. Rachel backs up one step, then two as Dean grasps the quill and holds it up.

Rachel’s turns, whip-fast, towards Castiel and she starts shaking her head. “No, no. Cas, you can’t.”

Castiel touches a hand to her shoulder and she quiets, tucks her sword away in a sheath at her side, and if Dean didn’t know he was in trouble before, he definitely knows now.

They’re having some sort of silent conversation Dean isn’t privy to. Castiel tries to chuck Rachel under the chin, but she bats his hand away and wipes at her face as she steps out of the clearing.

She turns her back and disappears in a snap and a neat rush of air.

Castiel plucks the feather out of his hand while he’s distracted, and now he’s twisting it in his hands, turning it this way and that before facing Dean.

“Rachel isn’t fond of humans.”

“Yeah. I got that.”

“She has good reason.”

Dean probes at the cut on his neck gingerly and decides it isn’t as bad as it could be. He tries his best not to be completely flippant. “Oh, I’m sure.”

“You kept this. You cleaned it, and then you came back to me.” Castiel flicks his eyes to the feather, and then back to Dean. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

“Uh, no..?”

Castiel huffs a laugh, turns the feather over again. “Technically, we are what my sept would consider ‘bonded’.”

“Bonded.” Dean echoes dumbly. “You mean, like, married?”

Castiel considers. “It’s only an engagement until it’s consummated, but, yes. We are, sort of married.”

Dean waves both hands between them in vague shock. “But we didn’t-”

“Feathers are considered an intimate part of ourselves. If you had only completed one, or even two steps of the bonding process, it wouldn’t have.. stuck. If you don’t intend for this to happen, if you don’t wish to proceed,” Castiel holds the feather between both of his hands as if he’s going to break it over his knee like a twig. Dean winces before Castiel’s next words even break the surface.  “It can be severed.”

Dean lurches forward like his strings have finally been cut, and he tears the feather out of Castiel’s hands. Warmth bursts across his palm like he’s been branded, but he only clutches it tighter. Tells Castiel, fervently, adamantly, “ _No_.”

A hush settles over the clearing as Castiel alternates between looking at the feather clenched in his fist, and the determined expression on Dean’s face. Finally, quietly, he comes to his own conclusions. “Alright.”

Dean tucks the feather away. “What now.”

“Nothing.” Castiel lifts one shoulder. “We’re not a fully bonded pair because we haven’t consummated the bond. We don’t need the same things a fully bonded pair would. We should be able to go our separate ways, if that’s what you want.”

“I mean what about your help.” Dean says seriously. “The war, Cas.”

The mention of war deepens Castiel's frown and for a moment he seems immeasurably old, and exhausted. “It’s not our war.”

“But-”

“And it’s not my decision to make. Sariel has her reasons for seclusion.”

“You can’t be serious. They took your home, Cas. How can you stand by and let that happen?”

“There is more than revenge at stake, Dean.” Castiel turns away, follows the path Rachel took through the ferns almost step for step. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

Dean doesn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t this. “You won’t help us?” He shakes his head. “You won’t help me?”

“Dean,” Castiel smiles, sadly. “I already did.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You haven’t.” Sariel chides. Rachel hisses his name under her breath in frustration. By disobeying, and now refusing Sariel’s offer, Castiel is teetering on the brink of disrespect. “You aren’t truly bonded. His soul hasn’t even called for your grace yet. You could break it easily.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hello yes this was SUPPOSED to be a cinderella au.  
> except this fic spit out accidental bonding and i'm not sure where it's going but it's going somewhere so just
> 
> stick with me ? :)

“I refuse to cover this up for you.”

Castiel follows as Rachel sets off to find Sariel. He understands. He doesn’t like it, but he understands.

The river isn’t far, but the walk to his fate feels like it drags for hours until Sariel turns in a swirl of her cloak of sand and faded coral to receive them.

Disagreements in the sept that manage to escape Sariel’s notice are few and far between, and it’s clear to both of them that she has an understanding of the discord. She unclasps her hands, automatically offering her right to Rachel, and her left to Castiel. Sariel tilts her head towards Muriel and Eae splashing and laughing in the river, and the implication is obvious. This conversation is best held away from little ears.

If there was anyone left to pray to, Castiel would be on his knees. He remembers a time when he was, when Sariel had worn a crown of ivy and coaxed him down from the highest limb of an oak tree and into her arms. He remembers kneeling and asking for mercy without words.

Instead, he slots his right hand against Sariel’s left and allows his elder to lead him down river.

They walk a considerable distance before Sariel pauses. It’s a good spot, they’re still within the safety of the wards, and Castiel can hear Eae’s high pitched laughter as she chases her sister.

Sariel releases their hands and pushes her hood back. She looks first to Rachel, measuring. And then her eyes settle on Castiel and he is a lost fledgling with a broken wing all over again.

But Sariel has translated Rachel’s disappointment and disapproval into worry and unease. She isn’t worried about the safety of the sept, not at all. Castiel has had direct experience with that singular emotion far too often in the last year. He knows what it feels like; the unrest that pulses through each of them, a bur anchored in his heart, an uncomfortable, unhappy buzz in his chest. He’s known that worry, and this isn’t quite the same.

Sariel is worried - specifically, single-mindedly - about Castiel.

The realization is both a reassurance, and an uncertainty. Castiel breaks eye contact, and bows his head in acknowledgment. “I will not apologize.” Rachel shifts her feet and balls her hands up. “I only regret that my actions have caused you both undue stress. For that, I’m sorry.”

“Castiel,” His name is a sad thing as it tumbles out of Sariel’s mouth. The hand she places against his cheek is whisper soft. “I would never deny you this, but you are very young, and he is a human caught up in war. There are many neighboring septs we could bargain with, if you wished to bond.”

Her offer isn’t made lightly. A new bonding could mean many things for their own sept, depending on negotiations. But Castiel is also aware of the fact that Sariel enjoys meeting with the other elders as much as she enjoys Gabriel’s pranks. (Which is to say, not at all.) And after the entire process, Castiel could be bonded with an angel he feels nothing for. A complete stranger.

Dean hasn’t been a stranger for a long time.

“Sariel, I couldn’t ask that-”

“You haven’t.” Sariel chides. Rachel hisses his name under her breath in frustration. By disobeying, and now refusing Sariel’s offer, Castiel is teetering on the brink of disrespect. “You aren’t truly bonded. His soul hasn’t even called for your grace yet. You could break it easily.”

“Yes.” Castiel admits. Sariel can see the fragile thread of the could-be bond, and she is well aware of what he’s capable of, of what he’s doing. Severing the bond would require a flick of a thought in the right direction, but he isn’t breaking it. Castiel is protecting it, shielding it, wrapping it in grace and warmth and _encouraging_ it.  “I could, but I won’t.”

His spoken resolve cuts through any doubt and Sariel barely pauses as she tucks a strand of white hair away from her face. Castiel imagines she knew this was coming a week ago, and procured the invitation and left it in a place only he would look. Sariel is centuries older, and far wiser. She took Castiel in when he was only a small, silent thing. She was patient and forgiving and she set his heart to rights as she set the bones in his wing.

She has never been careless.

“I couldn’t have imagined you with anyone less, Castiel. He’s a good man. He will make a fine King, when the time comes.” She clasps her hands together again in a show of finality as the sun sets over her shoulders. Her smile is light, but her eyes are too bright as she nods. “You were always destined for great things, my treasure.”

Castiel is now a foot taller than Sariel, but he allows himself to be coaxed lower, and blessed.


End file.
